Death of a Tyrant

by Christopher Nicole

  Beria smoothed his bald head. “Your source has also informed you of this?” He simply had to find out who this source was, and get rid of him, certainly.

  “No, no,” Stalin said. “I have other sources. I have just, for instance, received a visit from Jennie Ligachevna.” Beria controlled his features with an effort. He did not like Jennie Ligachevna, much as he enjoyed watching her daughter train…and bathe afterwards. “Jennie brought me a letter,” Stalin went on. “Which puzzled her. It was from the so-called Dowager Princess of Bolugayen.”

  Now Beria frowned. He was the only man in Russia who knew the true relationship between Stalin and Priscilla Bolugayevska-Cromb. “The Princess has written to her sister-in-law,” Stalin went on, “requesting her to give what assistance she can to a man called Morgan. This man claims to be the son of the Countess Patricia Bolugayevska-Cromb’s manservant, who died with her during the disturbances on Bolugayen in 1917. You know of this, Lavrenty Pavlovich?”

  “It is on file, Josef Vissarionovich,” Beria said, cautiously. The matter of the Bolugayevski family was dangerous ground, and not only because of the Dowager Princess’s activities. The Countess Patricia, in the days when she had been an anarchist and a Communist herself, had been exiled to Siberia, with Lenin, and had later fought on the barricades, so it was said, beside Stalin himself. But she had been murdered by Red forces. He had never been sure how Stalin stood in connection with that, or indeed how he stood now.

  “Yes,” Stalin said. “Well, this is another example of that arrogance with which the British feel they can treat the rest of the world. They assume that anyone who is not British is necessarily a halfwit. As for that cursed family…this is open war.”

  “Ah…I am not sure I understand your meaning, Josef,” Beria ventured.

  “Well, obviously, this man is the spy.”

  Beria raised his eyebrows.

  “Have you ever heard of a man going looking for his father’s grave, thirty years after that father’s death? Even if there were a grave, which there isn’t, as must be known, certainly to the Princess. She was there when it all happened.”

  Beria stroked his chin. “The name Morgan suggests that this man is Welsh,” he remarked. “The Welsh are a very romantic people. It is possible that he is telling the truth.”

  “Bah! It is all very obvious to me,” Stalin said. “The Princess, and that scoundrel of a husband of hers, are working with the British Government. I have a suspicion they have always been working with the British Government. Thus it is clear that they are assisting the British Secret Service in getting their man Halstead into Russia, in the most plausible of all guises.”

  Beria frowned. “You think Morgan is Halstead?”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  Beria knew that his employer suffered, increasingly often, from an advanced case of paranoia which sometimes amounted to madness. He also knew that Stalin hated the Bolugayevski-Crombs, and Priscilla Bolugayevska-Cromb in particular, more than anyone else in the world — and Stalin hated a lot of people. But this was really stretching the limits of even a diseased imagination. However, Stalin was his employer, and it was his business to keep the ogre happy, until he could destroy him. “So, you would like this man Morgan taken care of the moment he enters Russia.”

  “No, no,” Stalin said, somewhat impatiently. “Not Morgan, or Halstead, or whoever he really is. I think he is a fish we can play for a while. Is he not coming to visit Jennie? And does not Jennie have a daughter who works for you? He will not know this. I think you should let Tatiana develop a…what do the Americans call it? A crush on him. She will take him around, show him everything he wishes to see. She will even accompany him down to Bolugayen, if that is where he wants to go. She will find out everything about this man, Lavrenty Pavlovich. I am told she can make men forget all their troubles. And all their responsibilities.”

  Beria drew a deep breath. He knew, of course, that Tatiana Gosykinya, having spent the entire War behind the German lines fighting with the partisans, had lost her virginity at a very early age. But he also knew that since the Great Patriotic War had ended she appeared to have lost her interest in sex; well, everyone can have too much of a good thing. But he had intended that when her interest returned, he would be the beneficiary. Of course, he could command it, whenever he chose; she was his servant. But she, and her mother, were also two of Stalin’s favourite people; he would have preferred a relationship between Tatiana and himself to be something mutual. Now, to have her seduce this English spy… What made it worse was the possibility, the certainty as far as he was concerned, that this man was not the spy Stalin’s paranoia had immediately supposed. In which case she would be entirely wasting her time, and that splendid body.

  Stalin was watching him. “You do not like this idea? Is it not time Tatiana was usefully employed? One cannot train forever.”

  Beria licked his lips. “I think it is an excellent concept, Josef Vissarionovich. Tatiana will certainly find out everything about this man, and very quickly.”

  “I have no doubt of it. And while she is attending to him, you will be attending to the more serious matter.”

  Beria raised his head.

  “It is time for our final reckoning with the Bolugayevski-Crombs, Lavrenty Pavlovich. I have had this in mind, for some time. As you know, I had arranged for it during the War. Those plans went wrong, and in the euphoria of victory, well, they got away. I might even have been inclined to allow them to exist, so long as they no longer attempted to interfere in our affairs. However, now that they are working for the British Government…”

  “With respect, Josef, but you do not know that.”

  “It is as plain as the nose on your face, Lavrenty. They are a danger to the state. They have always been a danger to the state. The evidence is plain. They live in America, but presently they are in England. While they are in England, Halstead is summoned to the British Secret Service headquarters. The next day, Halstead appears at Priscilla Bolugayevska-Cromb’s hotel, for his final briefing, no doubt.”

  “This is assuming Halstead and Morgan are the same man,” Beria murmured.

  “Of course they are the same man. Now I wish them destroyed. And at the top of the list…” he pointed. “I wish the Princess, here in Russia, to answer for her crimes against Soviet Russia.”

  “She will never come to Russia. Again.”

  “I agree with you. She will have to be brought.”

  Beria took off his pince-nez, looked at them, then put them back on his nose. He was very tempted to remind his chief that he had had Priscilla Bolugayevska-Cromb, sitting right where he was, on at least two previous occasions, and had done nothing more than talk. And then his desire for revenge could have been accomplished with no repercussions. But perhaps, then, he had not yet felt the desire for revenge. “You have, I am sure, people capable of accomplishing this task,” Stalin said.

  “Oh, indeed. But…if the Princess were to disappear, no one would be in any doubt what had happened to her. While when she reappeared, here in Russia…”

  “She is not going to reappear, here in Russia,” Stalin said. “She is never going to reappear again. As for her disappearance in America, or in England, where she happens to be right now, well, it will cause a sensation. But nothing more than that. As I have said, we possess at this moment more freedom of action than we are likely to in a couple of years’ time. One pseudo princess, however beautiful, however famous, is not something the Americans will go to war about.”

  Beria inclined his head. “And her husband? And her son?”

  “The son is a nothing. The husband…after what he has written about us… I issued the order for his death a dozen years ago, and was betrayed. I issue it again, now.”

  *

  Lavrenty Beria had a distinct feeling that he had been in collision with a bus, as he returned to Lyubyanka Square. But while he fully intended to step into Stalin’s shoes the moment that was possible — and equally fully intended
to make it possible sooner rather than later — he knew that until the vital moment arrived he must be the most faithful of servants. However difficult, or almost impossible, the task set him. He sent for Kagan, told him what he wanted done.

  Kagan was a short, heavy man of Tatar origin. He was about the most deadly agent Beria employed, if only because he possessed tunnel vision, and would let nothing deflect him from his allotted task. But he also had a cool and quick brain. “Can you do it?” Beria inquired.

  “Of course, Comrade. But not by snapping my fingers.”

  “Tell me what you wish and you shall have it.”

  “In the first place, Comrade, while the Princess and her husband are presently in England, this is clearly a visit; they will be back in America before we can organise anything.”

  “If the Premier is correct, and they are linked with the British Secret Service, they may well remain in England for some time.”

  Kagan’s eyes were hooded. “Do you believe the Premier is correct, Comrade? With the greatest possible respect.” Beria sighed. But walls, even his walls, had ears. Kagan took his silence as agreement. “Therefore, while I shall investigate the situation in England, I will also prepare plans to remove the Princess from her home in America. Boston.”

  “Will that not be greatly more difficult?”

  “Not at all. Possibly even easier. We need an infiltrator.”

  “The Princess, and her husband, will be totally suspicious of anyone from Russia who attempts to contact them.”

  “I am sure that is so, Comrade. However, the Princess’s son, and his wife, both fought with the Partisans during the Great Patriotic War, did they not?”

  Beria stroked his chin. “They belonged to a highly successful group,” Kagan went on, “which operated out of the Pripet Marshes. The group came into being almost the day war was declared, and was still there when we finally reached them again, in 1944. A great deal of comradeship must have sprung up amongst them for them to survive at all. In addition, a member of that group, the commander, in fact, was a Bolugayevska herself, by descent. If this woman were to appear in the States, seeking perhaps asylum, there is no doubt the family would take her in. And then…”

  “That is not possible,” Beria said. “Are you not aware that Tatiana Gosykinya works for us? For me?”

  “I was aware of that, Comrade. Surely that would make her employment in this matter easier, as she is not in a position to refuse.”

  “She is reserved for other duties,” Beria said. “In any event, there is no way any of her American cousins would believe that Tatiana would wish to defect, or if she did, that she would not contact them before leaving Russia, through her mother. The whole concept is too fraught with inconsistencies and possible dangers. But the idea is a sound one. Yes. An old comrade, turning up in Boston, and seeking the help of the people with whom he fought to become established…”

  “You know others in the group, Comrade?”

  “Oh, indeed. I think I know the very man.”

  *

  “Well, Comrade? Are you not pleased to have an assignment at last?” Beria asked.

  “I am very pleased, Comrade Commissar,” Tatiana said. She sat before his desk, upright in the straight chair. She might have been an applicant for a secretarial position. Equally, she might never have bathed in front of him. Was she totally devoid of feeling? “Tell me what it is you have to do.”

  “I meet this man Morgan, I befriend him in the name of my mother, I show him whatever it is he wishes to see, I discover what is the real purpose behind his visit to Russia. I report to you.” Her voice was utterly toneless.

  “You will remember that your mother knows nothing of his true purpose.”

  “I understand.”

  Beria knew Tatiana did not altogether like her mother, however much she might respect her — as her mother. “You will receive assistance, of course,” he said. “This man is a devoted and cunning enemy agent. Whatever happens, he must be destroyed.”

  “I understand that,” Tatiana said. “Whether or not he is carrying incriminating evidence, such evidence will be planted upon him. And to obtain what the state requires, I shall seduce him.”

  Still not the slightest suggestion of emotional involvement. She was either a spymaster’s dream, or a lurking disaster — for someone. “Does this prospect disturb you?”

  At last she looked directly into his eyes. “No, Comrade Commissar. Not if it is for the good of Mother Russia.”

  How trim she was in her uniform. How delicious was the white flesh beneath it, as he well knew. How much did he long to touch her, stroke her, command her to do his every sexual bidding…but she was too close to Stalin, through that demented mother of hers. It was a pleasurable thought that when the monster fell, at his hands, both Jennie Gosykinya and her daughter would be at his mercy. Jennie was worth nothing more than a bullet in the base of the skull. But this gorgeous creature would be all his. She was worth waiting for. And meanwhile… “You understand that you will not wear uniform for this assignment.”

  “I understand, Comrade Commissar.”

  “I have procured some proper clothes for you,” Beria said. “In those boxes.” Tatiana turned her head. She might be a glacier, emotionally, but she was also a woman. A pile of boxes had to interest her, especially when they were secured by ribbons and carried the GUM label. “Open them,” Beria invited.

  Tatiana hesitated only a moment, then got up and untied the ribbon round the first box. She lifted off the lid with both hands, and then with both hands took out the frock inside the box. She gave a little gasp. Beria estimated she had never owned anything made of taffeta before. “Do you like it?”

  The bodice was red, the flared skirt black. “It is…decadent.”

  “This man is used to decadent women. Go on.”

  Tatiana hesitated, then laid the dress across his desk, opened the next box, lifted the brassiere in total disbelief. “Have you never worn one of those?”

  Tatiana shook her head. She was staring at the lace panties in the bottom of the box. “What about the American woman, Mitchell, who served with you in the Pripet? Did she wear those?”

  Tatiana gave a grim smile. “The Pripet was not the place for wearing lace, Comrade Commissar.”

  “Try them on,” Beria invited.

  Tatiana glanced at him, then at the door. He knew she was less concerned with someone coming in while she was changing, than with someone seeing her wearing such clothes.

  “I am waiting,” Beria said, his entire being consumed with desire. Tatiana unbuttoned her tunic and laid it on the chair. Then she stepped out of her skirt. “Ah,” Beria said. “Stockings. That box.” Tatiana opened the box, took out the silk stockings and the suspender belt with a growing expression of disbelief. “I believe the belt goes on under the panties,” Beria explained.

  Tatiana glanced at him, then slid down her drawers. As he always did when he saw those magnificent buttocks, that frothing pubic hair, Beria had a quick attack of indigestion. “Sit down to do it,” he said, surprised at how even his voice was. “You must be careful not to ladder the stockings.” Tatiana fastened the belt round her waist, then sat down, facing him, and slowly and carefully slid the stockings up her legs, clipped them into place. “Make sure your seams are straight,” Beria said. “That is very important.”

  “You know a great deal about women’s habits, Comrade Commissar,” Tatiana remarked, as she checked her seams.

  “I know a great deal about women,” Beria pointed out.

  She thought he was optimistic, as she put on the panties and with some difficulty fitted the brassiere. “This is a little tight.”

  “It can be let out as required. Now the dress.” Tatiana put on the dress, faced him. “You are superb,” he said.

  “Why, Comrade Commissar, it is very nice of you to say so.” He had never actually paid her a compliment before.

  “You will turn this fellow’s head so far he will be looking behind hi
m. But you must be subtle. You must play him like a fish.”

  I must be subtle, Tatiana thought. Wearing clothes like these? But… “I will play him like a fish, Comrade Commissar,” she agreed. “How will the meeting take place?”

  “I have arranged a suitable situation for you, Tatiana,” Beria said.

  *

  Andrew Morgan knew western Europe well, from his experiences during the War. He even knew Berlin fairly well. But when the train pulled out of the station and across the Polish frontier he was breaking new ground. He found it exciting. By then he had already encountered the East German border guards, had had all his papers perused and passed from hand to hand; apparently the idea of someone travelling to Russia to visit his father’s grave was incomprehensible to them.

  The excitement had begun with his meeting with the Dowager Princess It was incredible that his father should have worked for so glorious a creature. Should have died for her, in fact. Should have been intimately involved with that whole remarkable family, now so reduced in numbers. But it was equally incredible that the Princess should have so willingly agreed to help him. He had not expected that. The whole idea had only been a nebulous one until he had read that article in the glossy. Even then he had half intended only to use it as an excuse to meet the woman. But her enthusiasm no less than her beauty had turned a dream into a determination. Because she wished to see him again, when he returned.

  And before then, she had given him an introduction to the Russian half of the family. That was hardly less credible, that he would actually be meeting the Countess Patricia’s daughter. The Countess had been Father’s actual employer. He should certainly have something to write about after that. He lunched, as he had the two previous days, in the dining car. The menu was printed in Russian, Polish, German and French, and he had learned just enough Russian to know what he was getting, much to the amusement of the waiter. Again, as he usually did, he read some of his guide book during the meal, and was surprised when, as he stirred his coffee, someone sat opposite him; the train was not that crowded. “I hope you don’t mind,” the stranger said, in English. “But I couldn’t help seeing that you were reading an English language guidebook. My name is John Smith.” He was a nondescript looking man, quite well dressed, but with a face so featureless it would be difficult to remember any of it. It was a face to go with the over-common name.